The Crooked Potters
by Banm
Summary: Set 27 years after the death of You-Know-Who. A horrendous mistake is made by Head Auror Harry Potter which leaves dozens dead. Twelve months later he is a shell of his former self and has lost everything he once held dear. Is Redemption even an option?
1. Book 1: Prologue

_Disclaimer: "Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!"_

Book 1: ****The Crooked Potters****

****Prologue****

Twenty-Seven years ago the wizarding world breathed one great, big, collective sigh of relief. The tumultuous war that rocked Britain to it's very essence had ended in one very long night. The Ministry of Magic was reclaimed, the corruption of Hogwarts vanquished and above all: The Dark Lord was dead. For some it was too good to be true. The terror that had haunted the wizarding world for forty years was now just an empty body, tucked away from sight in a locked chamber in Britain s mysterious wizarding school.

Freed at last from the shackles that bound him to the Dark Lord, Harry finally began to live his life. Revered by most and Admired by all he evolved into one of the most prominent young Aurors in wizarding history. His skills were unmatched and with them he progressed through the ranks of the Ministry, eventually claiming the prestigious title of Head Auror. Haunted no more by Voldemorts soul, he experienced the true pleasures of life along with his bustling Family, The Potter-Weasley Clan. For a time, everything was just right for Harry.

You see, there are hundreds of tales that speak of the triumphs and victories of Harry James Potter.

But this is not one of those tales.


	2. Chapter 1: A Potent Liquid

_Warning: This is not the Harry we know and love. But I think he has potential._

**Chapter 1: A Potent Liquid**

If a house could be embarrassed. This one certainly was. Not only was it a complete mess, but it smelt too. In fact it smelt like the world's worst Firewhisky brewery. Another shocking aspect is that only twenty four hours ago this house was a shining example of what a house should aspire to be. Every corner dusted, every window gleaming. Even the toilet seats were down. This was all the work of a very helpful and very patient House Elf, even now Tabby was sweeping empty bottles into one corner, ready to be vanished into non-existence. Tabby worked hard at her job like any respectable House Elf, in fact some might say she worked even harder given her current situation. Like every house Elf, Tabby was charged at keeping the house clean and tidy, washing her Masters clothes and linens amongst other routine tasks. But unlike most servants, she also had unlimited access to her Masters vault in Gringotts Bank. His vault held gold. Lots and lots of gold. And this gold bought Firewhisky. Lots and lots of Firewhisky. The Firewhisky was then consumed by Tabby's unkempt and untidy Master. Tabby had known many Human Beings in her life. But none more miserably broken than this one. His name was Harry Potter.

To get a rough idea of the state of Harry Potter, look no further than the musky den of a house that he inhabited. Before Potter found the common sense to hire his very own House Elf, the dwelling was in a very sorry state. It had been decades since the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had seen true settlement. It was a closely guarded secret that the House itself had seen action during the Second Wizarding War, acting as the official headquarters of the infamous Order of the Phoenix, founded by Albus Dumbledore to counter the forces of Lord Voldemort. Even during those busy times the house was rarely clean and often times dangerous. The pure-blood residency was said to have mind of its own and would take every chance to strike back at the inferior outsiders. The war ended and the house began to fade into obscurity once again. Its owner had gladly forgotten Grimmauld Place and firmly blocked it from his mind, for this place held no happy memories.

It wasn't until six months prior that the ancient house had materialized once again and its doors had creaked open. The house was bathed in a sea of filth and every footstep taken further into the house brought forth an eruption of dust. The shambling figure made his way to the kitchen where he found a single, solitary bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, his late godfathers favorite. The man sat down in the once bustling kitchen and drank to the memories of those who had once sat with him in the empty room. He drank until their faces blurred together in his mind, until uncontrollable tears dropped from his face to mingle with the misery that already hovered in the abode.

The days blended into weeks and the weeks to months. It wasn't long before the doors swung open once more and Harry found himself face to face with his two best friends. They sought only to look past Harry s mistakes and sorry state. To show compassion and understanding to the friend they so sorely missed. They found only reproach from an intoxicated Harry, his new found drinking habits only fueled the intensity of his heart ache. He could not bear to allow his loved ones to see him like this and for some time he was alone.

Each morning Harry would wake, still light headed from the previous nights foray. In the brief period between awakening and the pouring of his first glass he would make a mental list of goals to be completed to begin the steps towards regaining some kind of slither of his past life; Send letter to his estranged family, whose absence pained him most of all. But how could he expect them to simply welcome him back after he had abandoned them during their darkest hour? No. He could not do that. So he had another drink. He should visit Kingsley, his close friend and mentor, not to mention current Minister for Magic. It was Shacklebolt who suggested Harry step down temporarily from his post as Head Auror, but he couldn't have predicted that the public outrage and emotional distress would cause such a downhill spiral in Harry's life. Yet Harry had been out of contact with Shacklebolt for a near six months and he couldn't let himself be seen in the Ministry, fearing a torrent of questions and demands. Harry had never been fond of his celebrity status in the Wizarding world and the publicity it brought him, he had learnt at an early age to ignore both the false criticism and praise piled on him from the Daily Prophet and its many opinionated journalists, none more so than the infamous Rita Skeeter, who was the first to denounce Harry Potter and his Auror Department after the incident. Harry couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the negative outbursts from both tabloids and the general public, for this time he knew he deserved every ounce of it. The guilt was his alone and for the rest of his life he would have to endure it. And he accepted this.

For the first time in his life, Harry was a coward. And he knew it. His family, against their will, suspected it. And the Wizarding public certainly thought it, even after twelve months the bitterness of Harry's mistake still lingered in their minds. Most had forgiven Harry and his department, knowing that in the heat of the moment that accidents can surely happen, as they had before. But Harry had not forgiven himself. Nor would he likely ever. Even now, in the deepest of sleeps, his dreams provoked and taunted him. Flashing the images of charred bodies, trapped under crumbled stones as the building around Harry gave way. An invisible force surrounding Harry prevented him rushing to the victim's aid and he was forced to stand and witness the greatest Wizarding casualty since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Tabby watched her master twitch in his sleep, his fingers curl into fists and his upper lip slowly pull upwards into a snarl. He was having the nightmares again, she knew. Discarding the sack of empty bottles she was carrying, she approached Harry cautiously and peered into his troubled face where his glasses hung askew. Tabby took several deep breaths and snapped her fingers.

"Ginny?" mumbled Harry, his eyes popped open and his pupils constricted as they met the light from the open curtains.

Tabby backed away from the sofa Harry had claimed as a bed. "No sir, just Tabby sir." she muttered.

Harry swung his feet off the sofa and planted them firmly on the floor before burying his face in his hands. "I must of fallen asleep again." came his muffled voice.

"Yes sir, thirteen hours ago sir." Tabby had reverted back to her duties and snapped her fingers once more, causing the neatly piled bottles to vanish.

Harry peered through his fingers at the empty space where the bottles had just been. "Thirteen hours?" he mumbled. "It's one o'clock already?"

"Three o'clock sir." replied Tabby obediently. For a moment Harry looked mildly shocked. He blinked once, wiping the expression from his face and then bowed his head. He remained this way for some time.

* * *

><p>It was three o'clock on a Friday, thought Harry. Or was it Thursday? Not that it even mattered; every day was the same in this empty house. Harry clenched his hands together tightly to prevent the shaking that would take over his hands at any moment. It was a regular thing, the shakes, a battle that Harry fought every morning. It was as if his hands sought out the next bottle even as his mind rejected it. He hated the burning liquid that wetted his throat each day, numbing the pain into something more manageable. But without it he knew he couldn't function, living even one day with the clear knowledge that each hour he had struggled for victory had been a waste. Knowing that he had thrown away the most precious things in his now insignificant life.<p>

Harry grunted and stomped the carpet angrily, startling Tabby. He felt a pang of pity for the House Elf that he had hired into his service only months before. Harry chastised himself constantly for allowing himself the support of a House Elf, no creature deserved the burden of cleaning up after him. The only comfort he took from it was that she took an honest wage as a part of the new era of Elfish Welfare, as evident by her neatly ironed uniform. No longer were House Elves shackled to their Master, unable to abandon even the cruelest of Humans. House Elves could now willingly resign from a family's service at any moment. It shocked Harry that Tabby would willingly serve him. Harry raised his head at last and stared bleakly out of the open window. It was then Harry realized something was quite wrong.

"Tabby, did you take down the curtains?" asked Harry. He looked around the room for the missing blinds and his head quickly succumbed to dizziness.

"No sir, you did sir." she replied curtly.

"I did?" he asked, racking his brains, or what was left of them. It was useless. To Harry, last night was just one large blur.

"Yes sir, with fire sir." Tabby carefully avoided Harry s eye.

Fire? That seemed like something Harry ought to remember. He shook his head, could he really be that irresponsible? Of course he could, he thought as his anger flared. He had been nothing but irresponsible for six months. He watched Tabby as she collected the last of the bottles surrounding Harry s sofa, she handled them with distaste, always keeping them at an arms length. Even wrapping her hands with bandages. Harry halted in his train of thought and suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Bandages?

"Tabby... Your hands... You didn't? started Harry, slipping onto his knees to better inspect the angry burns creeping beneath Tabby's bandages.

She instantly averted her eyes. "It is no worry, sir." she said sadly, turning her back on Harry.

Harry's heart stopped. He thought his shame for being a reckless, feckless drunk was unmatchable, but it was suddenly eclipsed. Tabby had done nothing but help Harry, as little as he deserved it. By her own free will she had put up with his audacious behavior and now this is how he repaid her. Putting her directly in harms way, causing an innocent creature unnecessary pain. An innocent creature that could have packed her bags and withdrawn from Harry's services in an instant. Harry stared at Tabby as she left the room, dragging behind her an excess of his mess. How could he subject her to this? What was he thinking when he hired a House Elf? Harry s blood rushed to his head as his heartbeat quickened and he let out a small groan. On his breath he could taste the potent liquor that had driven him to stupidity. No, he wouldn't blame the alcohol. Only himself. Harry struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the door, his head still swam with giddiness. He made it two steps before collapsing into the floor. His glasses shattered and for a long time he lay there and sobbed.

* * *

><p>Tabby banged her head against the wall. How dare she reduce Master Harry to tears? He was a scared, lonely man who depended on her. How could she take his money yet treat him so badly? She banged her head again.<p>

"Bad Tabby! Bad Tabby!" she cried, accentuating every syllable by head butting the wall.

"Tabby. Stop that." came her Masters voice from the doorway. She bowed her head in shame, secretly thankful for the interruption. Her head ached rather a lot.

Harry knelt down and took her bandaged hands in his; she hid her surprise that his hands were still shuddering with sobriety. She made a mental note to restock the fridge with Firewhisky. Harry gingerly released her hands and looked her in the eye. Where were his glasses?

"Why do you put up with me, Tabby?" he asked at last, releasing the gaze.

"It is an elf's duty to support their Master." replied Tabby, almost mechanically.

Harry slumped against the wall behind him. "I don't deserve your support."

Tabby resumed her duties, leaving Harry in his silence. It worried Tabby that he hadn't yet settled into his first bottle of the day. Something was very wrong, so she decided to tell the truth.

"Elf's don't forget sir." she said. Harry looked up in surprise.

"Pardon?"

Tabby took a deep breath. "We aint like wizards, sir. We aint forgotten what you done for us, sir. What you done for the pro... progen.."

"Progenitor." said Harry fondly, recalling Hermione Weasley's four year campaign on House Elf rights. He felt an unfamiliar tickle on his face and realized he was smiling.

The Progenitor. The Free Elf. Dobby. Harry desperately tried to recall the elf's face from the depths of his memory. But it had been a very long time and his head still spun as the remains of last nights Firewhisky filtered through his body. Tabby looked positively frightened; she had never seen her Master smile before. A small chuckle escaped Harry's lips, where had he seen that concerned, elfish face before? It evoked a long forgotten memory from his youth: A rogue bludger, a hospital bed and a mouthful of Skele-Gro.

Harry chuckled again. Serenading the memory of Dobby the Free Elf with his laughter. He glanced at Tabby and the smile left his face abruptly as his eyes fell once more onto her bandaged hands. Harry sighed and pulled out his wand. What would Hermione think of him? Nothing that Harry didn't already think of himself. Every day for that matter.

Tabby anticipated Harry s intentions and recoiled away from his wand, much to Harry s surprise.

"It aint proper, sir."

"I'm not exactly proper, in case you hadn't noticed." replied Harry. He held his wand over Tabby's scolded hands.

"Episkey." he said, out loud. For he did not trust his still reeling head to pull off the non-verbal spell.

The rags covering Tabby's burns fell away, revealing the angry, scorched skin beneath. Inch by inch the skin re-knitted itself over the burns. In seconds the spell was finished, revealing a healthy stretch of pinky-grey skin. Tabby held her hands up to her eyes to examine them.

"You are most kind, sir." she said shyly. Harry opened his mouth to disagree, but Tabby had already turned away to return to her cleaning. Ever the dutiful House Elf.

Harry stood there alone, wand in hand. He had not cast such a healing spell in a long time. It felt good - the fact that he had caused harm to his faithful servant still shamed him - but for the first time in a long while he felt as if he had a purpose. He just didn't know what that purpose was, not yet anyway. Harry slumped against the wall and began, once again, to build a list in his head. Steps he would need to take to breathe life into his wasted existence and to bring about a wind of change. He had done this a hundred times. But this time would be the last.

* * *

><p>"Bugger."<p>

Harry's aim was atrocious - even with his repaired glasses. He had been out of practice for some time and his pounding headache didn't help. He flicked his wand again, launching a bottle of firewhisky high into the air over the mess of overgrowth that was Grimmauld Place's garden.

"Stupefy" he shouted, sending a red bolt hurtling towards the glass bottle.

Harry cursed himself again as the spell missed by an inch, barely grazing the glass. The bottle fell into the foliage below, disappearing from sight. Only one bottle was now left from the original pile of thirteen. Harry stared at it longingly, fighting against the temptation to unscrew the lid pour himself a glass. Just one glass? No, that would do no good. Clenching his fist tightly around his wand, Harry sent the last bottle into the air with a silent incantation, groaning as he did so.

"Stupefy" Harry shouted once more as the firewhisky reached its peak at roughly fifty feet in the air. This time his aim was true. The spell rocketed into the glass, shattering it. Shards flew in all directions; Harry instinctively threw up a shield charm to deflect any stray fragments. Harry felt a pang of jealously as his garden was briefly showered in whisky, the last drops he hoped he would ever see. For the first time in a long while the world had stopped spinning, he could almost think clearly. His hands still shook with a solid defiance but his head was cooled by a welcome breeze, such was uncommon for a summer month. Harry enjoyed being outside, there was a freshness in the air that seemed almost foreign. Hiding away in this ancient house with a poisoned mind had positively dulled his senses. He should spend more time in this garden, he thought.

"Letter for you, sir." came Tabby's voice from somewhere behind him. He absent mindedly held out his hand for the letter and felt it pushed against his hand.

"Oh sir, this won't do at all." said Tabby.

Harry peered down at his feet where she stood looking out over the garden. He followed her gaze to the impressive tangle of overgrowth.

"Nah." said Harry fondly, recalling a similar garden from his childhood. "I think it's brilliant."

He smiled at Tabby, who didn't look particularly reassured, she took another pained look at the garden before returning to the house. It was some minutes before Harry remembered his letter.

His name was inked in a perfect, twisting calligraphy. The handwriting tugged a distant chord in his memory. Harry frowned, trying to think who may be trying to contact him - his current whereabouts were certainly not a well known fact.

Harry carelessly ripped open the envelope, his shaking fingers taking with them a chunk of the letter inside. Digging into the envelope, Harry pulled out a single Quidditch ticket.

_Hollyhead Harpy (Reserve Team) vs. Wimbourne Wasps (Reserve Team)_  
><em>05:26 on the Afternoon of July 24.<em>  
><em>Exmoor, Northern Pitch<em>

Harry turned the envelope upside-down and shook it, looking desperately for a note of some kind. A small tear of parchment slipped through Harry's fingers. He instinctively caught it in midair and held it up to his eyes to read.

_With love,_  
><em>Lily<em>

Three words. The only words he had heard from any of his children in six months. Each word struck him like a blow to the head, igniting a dozen conflicting emotions. The mere fact that his daughter actually wanted to see Harry came to him as a shock. He looked at the Quidditch ticket again and smiled. His wife had once played for the Hollyhead Harpies, he fondly recalled the free tickets he would receive for every game, although his extensive Auror training would often restricted him from attending. He was happy to see his daughter following in her mothers footsteps. With a pang in his stomach he wondered how his other two children were doing - both had now graduated from Hogwarts and were paving their own paths in the Wizarding world. He should have been at home, aiding them with the choices they faced and guiding them as a decent parent would. Instead he had locked himself inside a decrepit house to be forgotten.

Harry looked at his dented pocket watch, given to him a long time ago by his Mother-in-law. He still had an hour before the first whistle, plenty of time to get to Exmoor. He looked over at the tool shed, where he kept his preferred mode of transport, apart from his broomstick of course. But he had left that behind.

"Tabby." said Harry, there was a deafening crack as she apparated to his side, rekindling the dull throbbing in his head.

"I'm going to need my helmet." he said as he strode towards the shed with a purpose. "And probably some gloves too."

"At once, sir." she said, disapparating again.

Harry waved his wand over the numerous locks on the shed door; each one unlocked and fell to the floor with a clang. The door swung open.

It had once belonged to his godfather and previous owner of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Over the years it had passed through several owners, each one adding their own upgrades to suit their needs. It had been given to Harry shortly after the war had ended. Ginny didn't approve and had forbidden the children from riding in the sidecar, much to their chagrin. The motorcycle itself gave off a sense of neglect as Harry ran his finger across the frame, leaving a line in the dust. The chassis was speckled with rust and there was a slight dent in the exhaust where he had made an emergency crash landing some years ago.

Tabby returned with Harry's things as he was pouring petrol into the tank. He quickly siphoned the dust from his helmet, he rarely used it after all.

"Right, I'll be out for a bit. Probably a couple of hours." Harry told Tabby, his voice betraying his excitement. "You should give yourself the night off. Put your feet up and have a butterbeer, maybe. I mean it, Tabby. No cleaning, no washing. You've earned it."

Tabby just nodded obediently, her worried eyes avoiding Harry's He swept the unkempt hair out of his eyes and pulled the helmet over his head. With a tap of his wand the motorcycle sprung to life, the engine giving off a deafening roar. Tabby scrambled out of the shed in fright as Harry swung himself into the seat. She gave Harry one last look before disapparating, Harry couldn't tell if it was a look of apprehension or disapproval. He shook his head and pulled out onto the gardens paving, enjoying the steady thrum of the engine underneath him. With a burst of acceleration he shot forward into the overgrown garden, shredding the tangled weeds.

Harry whooped with fevered elation as he took to the skies, shooting towards a sparse gathering of cloud. He felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as he swung the bike around to take one last look at Grimmauld Place before the Fidelius Charm swallowed it from view. With that, he headed west to the grassy banks of Exmoor where hope for the rejuvenation of Harry Potter still lay. All he needed do was grasp it and never let go.

But that was easier said than done.


	3. Chapter 2: Harpies

__Quick Quote: "Harry, don't go picking a row with Malfoy, don't forget, he's a prefect now, he could make life difficult for you..."  
>"Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life?" said Harry sarcastically.<em>_

****Chapter 2: Harpies.****

'Your ticket please, sir?'

Harry nodded, still wearing his motorcycle helmet, and slid his ticket onto the wooden stall in front of the elderly wizard, who swept his wand above it, scanning its authenticity. He gave a curt nod and vanished the ticket with a silent spell before shooing Harry on his way.

Harry walked back towards his motorbike, glad to be away from the claustrophobic queue leading up to the ticket kiosk. Away from the crowd, he finally slid his helmet off of his head and rested it on the seat of his bike. This was the first time he had been outdoors in months, and an uneasiness crept into him, replacing the earlier adrenaline rush that Harry had received during the ride to the stadium. Although it shamed him immensely, he was still not yet ready to face the public after his six months of concealment. He even considered altering his appearance, but dismissed the thought quickly; whilst he was a fairly capable wizard, Transfiguration was certainly not one of his strengths. Polyjuice potion would have been ideal, but his entire store had been left behind at his former home during his rush to leave the Wizarding World, and the complicated formula took a full month to brew.

Harry glanced at the lengthy queue behind him and absent-mindedly scratched his beard. Any one of those wizards or witches could recognize him. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he should return to his dark and lonely home. He turned away from the steadily growing crowd, desperate to not attract unwanted attention. It was then that he saw an unsightly and most unfamiliar reflection in his motorbike mirror.

It came as a shock to Harry that he needn't have worried about his appearance at all. He then realized that the months of malnourishment had taken their toll on his body. A thick scruff of beard covered his jaw and the hair on his head, thinning now with age, curled out in eccentric directions. With his sallow skin and the heavy bags beneath his eyes he could easily fit in with some of the more shady characters that inhibited Knockturn Alley. He grinned lopsidedly at his bedraggled reflection, but then stopped suddenly in thought. How would his daughter react to seeing him like this? Perhaps she wouldn't recognize him at all. Maybe that was for the best, after what he had put her through.

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat, it would do him no good to dwell on such things. He looked around him, searching for a change in subject. The sun was low in the sky, making Harry bow his head against its summer glare. These were good conditions for Quidditch, he thought, recalling similar weather from his trip to Hogwarts two years earlier. Lily had captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team to a hard fought victory against an equally skilled Ravenclaw, earning her house the Quidditch Cup. He fondly recalled her hefting the trophy above her head, her smile had lit up the entire stadium.

'Fancy a brew, mate?' called a young peddler to Harry's right. 'We got mead, stout, whisky. You name it.'

Before he could stop himself, Harry found himself automatically approaching the stall. His dry throat overpowering any will power he thought he had possessed. What harm could one drink do? He wondered. He took a deep breath to clear his head. One could lead to two. Which could lead to three, four, five and... Harry suddenly recalled a lost memory from the night before. A flash of bright, orange flames conjured from his own wand in a drunken outburst.

'N-No.' stammered Harry, his mind ablaze with the memories of his loyal house elf's injured hands. 'Nothing for me.'

The young man frowned at the awkward behaviour, then looked Harry up and down. The frown melted into a wicked grin.

'Not even a whisky? I can smell it on you, no point in hiding it. We've got Blishen's, Ogden's.. Mate?'

But Harry was already turning away, putting as much distance as he could between him and the liquor stall. The spices and aroma's that wafted past him only intensified the cravings. _Quidditch_, he thought, conjuring up his own memories of the broom-sport. If anything could keep his mind away from the liquor it was Quidditch. He hurried to join the steady stream of people making their way towards the pitch, past the various merchants and food stalls where the merriment had already began. Flags and butterbeers were waved in the air and songs chanted. Occasionally a minor argument would break out between fans of the opposing teams as they drunkenly bumped into each other, only to be promptly calmed down by the pitch wardens before any wands were drawn, or hexes thrown.

Tucking his gloved hands into the pockets of his heavy coat, Harry walked under the arch way and into the stadium, beneath the hanging banners of each team. One held a wasp amongst yellow and black stripes whilst the other sported a dark green background beneath a golden talon. He knew which team he would be supporting, his wife had played as a seeker, chaser and keeper during her six year tenure with the Hollyhead Harpies. She had even been offered the Captains Badge after her exceptional performance in the 2006 National Quidditch league. She had turned it down for one reason; She was pregnant. He could easily recall the last game she had played before retiring to raise her and Harry's family. The Harpies had destroyed the Chudley Canons by over one hundred points. Ron had been furious.

_Ron_.

Too long a time had passed since he had thought of his best friend. His right hand man. He smiled as he ascended the tower steps of the Quidditch pitch. At one time in Harry's life he had seen his friend on an almost daily basis, they had travelled far and wide together, fought aside one another on numerous occasions and eventually they had became brothers. Although people would often say they had been as close as brothers since their school years. Harry speculated on his friends whereabouts, would he still be working with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Could he even be the Head Auror now? It was a definite possibility. Harry had left them without warning and he could think of no better replacement. He found his thoughts lingering to their last mission together as he entered the stands. The mission where everything had went wrong, where anger had claimed Harry as its own and with a single miscast spell had brought his world, and a dozen lives, to a very sudden stop.

Harry stopped in his tracks. Memories began to dance around inside his head. Red, blurry images swirled before his eyes, accompanied by a sudden and unrelenting urge. His thoughts settled on the image of a single, dusty bottle of Firewhisky. Harry reached out, he could almost taste the scolding liquid on his tongue, his hand clenched around a rough, wooden post.

He found himself looking out over the Quidditch pitch. Harry had reached the top of the stand, where he was quickly jostled towards a seat by the surrounding crowd. He planted himself on a bench in the front row, between a grizzly, rotund man and a small, slightly child. Apprehension crept upon him, he had planned on taking a seat closer to the dark rear of the stands. Years of working as an Auror had made Harry uncomfortable presenting his back to so many people, it made him feel like a target. A trickling of sweat beaded at the top of his neck and slowly made its away down into the folds of his coat. It was too hot out here in the open sun, the breeze was almost non existent. Harry felt a hot flush come upon him, and the heat was only partially to blame. He looked down at his hands.

'You're shaking.' came a voice to his right.

Harry turned to see the child looking up at him with bright, brown eyes. Almost shimmering with excitement. Harry had a feeling it was his first Quidditch match.

'You're right.' replied Harry. 'It's freezing up here.'

'It really isn't.' chided the boy, and he returned his gaze to the oval Quidditch pitch below him.

Harry shrugged and looked away. His mouth was unimaginably dry. And his throat was starting to itch. He caught a whiff of something sweet and buttery in the air which sent his stomach into somersaults. The smell, coupled with the aggravating heat and surrounding crowd threatened to push Harry over the edge. He stood up abruptly, unwillingly to simply breathe in any more of the sickly butterbeer, but as he did so a magically enhanced voice reverberated around the stadium.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first exhibition game for the National Quidditch League reserves!'

A ripple of noise spread around the crowd as they welcomed the beginning of the game. It reminded Harry just where he was, and just who had invited him to be there. He shook his head and sat himself back down, ignoring an inquisitive look from the butterbeer swigging child to his left.

' - some heartbreaking news by our correspondents from the Daily Prophet. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Professor Leander Thursday, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and an honoured member of our community, has passed away at the ripe age of eighty-three.'

Harry absorbed the information in a solemn silence. Others around him gasped, or turned to whisper to their accomplices, but no tears were shed for the man. Harry doubted many would be shed at all. He had met the Headmaster on several occasions during his half-decade tenure at Hogwarts. He was a cold man, stern but not unkind. He had treated his students with respect but without the affection of previous Heads. The Wizarding community would surely miss his fierce intelligence. He would certainly be a hard man to replace.

A white spark shot into the air from the far side of the stadium, conjured as a sign of respect to the deceased Headmaster. Others in attendance followed suit, and soon the sky was filled with falling sparks.

He silently prayed for the game to begin so he could lose himself in the thrilling blur of competition. He recalled his daughters face, Lily Luna Potter, or "Little Loony" as he had used to call her, when she was but a babe and could not yet talk back or defend herself with her sharp edged wit. He imagined her face, not her face as the last time he had seen it when she had lay on a hospital bed, completely still, on the night of the massacre. But before that, when things were better. When Harry was better.

* * *

><p>'And now, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for - the Hollyhead Harpies Reserve Quidditch Team! I give you - Hobb!'<p>

Lily watched as Hobb, the team captain, kicked off from the ground and rocketed into the sky above. _Two more to go_, she thought.

'Stebbins!' boomed the Announcer's voice. Magically amplified, it sent vibrations through the entire stadium.

Stebbins gave a whoop and straddled her broom. In an instant she was gone. Lily squeezed her eyes shut. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

'And Watkins!'

Matilda Watkins turned to Lily, her smile stretching from ear to ear. 'That's me!' she squealed. Then she poked out her tongue and hopped onto her broomstick. 'See you in the air, Mad-Eye!' she shouted as she zoomed away, Lily glared at her as she too prepared to mount her broom.

'I hate that name.' she grumbled to no one in particular.

'Whatever, Mad-Eye.' chirped a team mate from behind her.

'And returning to professional Quidditch for the first time in six months... ' a smile tugged at the corners of Lily's mouth. 'Potter!'

The ground fell away from her as she hurtled into the air, arcing to the left and towards her fellow team mates. A sudden and almighty roar from the crowd showered her alongside the evenings glaring sunshine. Her cheeks reddened, not that anyone would notice, unless they had a seriously good pair of Omnioculars. She had expected the worse; booing, hissing, thrown vegetables. Six months was a long time, but the country still remembered what had happened before her sudden leave of absence. What she hadn't expected was the entire stadium welcoming her back to the sport with such a righteous, beautiful cheer.

She couldn't resist a barrel roll, which sent a surge of delight through the crowd. The rest of her team funnelled out behind her as she caught up to Matilda and fell into formation. She scanned the opposite end of the pitch, scouting the opposition. Five men and two women, each garbed in an unflattering yellow and black striped uniform. It almost hurt her good eye to look at the garish colours, and she decided in that moment that she would enjoy beating this team.

Another shout from the announcer informed Lily that the referee had hovered his way onto the pitch, an aluminium lock-box tucked beneath his arm. He held the box at an arms length, where it squirmed slightly. The referee produced his wand - it was short and stubby, rather like him - and tapped it once on the box, deactivating the reinforced locks and releasing three balls into the air; Two malicious, iron Bludgers, dark as shadows and easily capable of causing broken bones and memory loss. Then came the snitch. It was nothing like the Bludgers. It was graceful and almost angelic in appearance with its golden sheen and silver wings.

Lily tore her attention back to the referee, letting the golden snitch escape her sight. She had another ball to worry about. The scarlet Quaffle was launched into the air, accompanied by an ear-piercing screech from the referee's whistle and an encouraging rumble from the crowd. Six chasers threw themselves flat onto their brooms, desperate to be the first to reach the ball as it fell, unnaturally slow, back to the earth - magically enchanted to resist the effects of gravity.

'And Cunningham is first to the Quaffle - but wait - he fumbles it!' There was a groan from the yellow-clad crowd members. 'Stebbins steals the Quaffle right from under his nose!'

Lily kept one eye on the Quaffle as it was passed between Stebbins and Watkins. The other eye scanned the opposing team for any gaps in their defence. She was flying on the right wing to support her central team mates. As soon as they drew their opponents attention the Quaffle would be passed to Lily, and with a little luck she would score her first professional goal in six months.

'Watkins - Stebbins - Back to Watkins!'

A sudden movement from Lily's side forced her to duck out of the way of a speeding Bludger. It sailed harmlessly over her head and back into the tangle of players, but the manoeuvre had thrown her out of position just as Watkins passed the Quaffle in her direction. Acting on pure reflexes, Lily yanked backwards and took both hands from the broom, with her arms stretched she just managed scrape the Quaffle with the tips of her fingers. The industry-standard gripping charm did the rest, rolling the ball firmly into her hand as if it were magnetic. Off balance, Lily rolled once before planting her free hand back onto the broom to right herself. Then she shot off towards the enemy goal.

'Brilliant Bludger work there from Haskins, but it's not enough to keep Potter away from the Quaffle - Is she going for the goal? - She is!'

She was unstoppable. Dipping beneath an incoming Wasp, Lily swerved into the scoring area, the Quaffle tucked against her hip bone. Stebbins and Watkins fell back - only one opposing chaser could enter the scoring area at once - and then held their breath as Lily lifted her arm and threw the Quaffle, backhanded, towards the middle hoop, allowing a grunt of exertion to squeeze out of her lungs as she completed the throw. The Keeper made a desperate dive for the right hoop, misjudging Lily's shot and allowing the Quaffle to glide safely through the central hoop and away into the stands.

'Potter scores!' shouted the announcer above the sudden outroar from the green clad supporters. 'It's ten zero to the Hollyhead Harpies!'

Lily punched the air as she swooped past the crowd. Full of joy and spurred on by the first goal of the game, Lily couldn't help perform a celebratory somersault, delighting the Harpy fans in attendance. She angled herself back towards her team-mates with a smile on her face, eager to get back into the game. Her nerves had fizzled away into nothingness, she was in her element. She swept the surrounding stands with her eye, fruitlessly searching for any sign of her estranged father. She shook her head, remembering the anxiety she felt as she sent the tickets to the unfamiliar address that her Uncle Ron had given her, it was silly to expect him to resurface here, in the middle of such a public gathering, after he had been away so long.

As much as she missed him, she pushed the thought away from her head. She couldn't afford a distraction at such a crucial time. The Quaffle had returned to play, caught by an attacking chaser. Lily grinned as he streaked towards her, anxious to equalize for his team.

_Not if I have anything to say about it,_ thought Lily as she span around to face him, zooming forward to intercept.

* * *

><p>The crowd erupted in a cheer as the Hollyhead Harpies scored yet another goal, their thirteenth of the game. This time it was Libby Stebbins who had won the ten points for her team. Harry found himself on his feet, clapping alongside the enthusiastic young boy next to him as Stebbins whizzed over their heads to complete her victory lap.<p>

'She's my second cousin,' said the boy, smiling proudly out at the pitch as Stebbins dived back into play.

'Do you play Quidditch with her?'

'They only visit at Christmas. 'Spect I won't see her this year after I start at Hogwarts.'

'Hogwarts.' repeated Harry, almost choking on the word. A rush of nostalgia flooded his thoughts; The great hall at Christmas; The comforting warmth of the dormitory fire; An explosion of light in the entrance hall illuminating the bodies that littered the floor.

'It's a school.' said the boy, pulling Harry away from his thoughts.

Agitated, Harry casually rubbed his forehead. 'Yeah, I'm aware of that - '

'And Hobb spots the snitch! This could be over in seconds!'

Harry swung his attention back to the Quidditch pitch as the crowd responded to Hobb's sudden spurt of speed with an encouraging rumble, steadily increasing in volume as she spiralled into the sky, the Wimbourne Wasps seeker struggling to match her movements. Watching the two seekers, Harry could almost feel the wind in his hair and the rush of adrenaline that so naturally came with the hunt of the golden Snitch.

The snitch looped itself around both seekers, forcing them both to make a sudden change of direction. The awkward movement put each seeker side-by-side, speeding after the snitch with arms outstretched and fingers snatching desperately at thin air. Harry, along with several hundred others, found himself holding his breath in anticipation as the seekers streaked over the stands, inching closer to the evasive golden snitch before there was sudden, deafening silence as the snitch faltered and both seekers swung their arms outward.

_CRACK!_

The silence was evaporated as a Bludger smashed its way past the seekers, clipping both of their hands in the process before escaping back into the air. The stadium quickly filled with cries of shock from the opposing crowds before-

'She's got it! She's got it! The Bludger knocks Hobb's hand into the snitch! The Hollyhead Harpies have won the game!'

The voice of the Quidditch announcer quickly found itself drowned out by the tumultuous roar from the Harpy supporters, with Harry amongst them. For several golden, blissful moments he lost himself, caught up in the adrenaline and immensity of the moment. The fans in attendance were cheering for their teams hard fought victory. Harry cheered for another reason.

He desperately sought the attention of his daughter as she joined the rest of the team in a mid-air group hug. Through the tangle of bodies he caught a snatch of red hair. Then, as the team broke away from each other, he saw her.

For the first time in six months Harry saw his only daughter, perched upon her broom and slowly rotating, searching for something in the mass of crowd. He glimpsed her fading smile, the same smile that had won his heart on the day she was born. Harry broke out into a smile of his own as he remembered her warm, brown eyes as they gazed happily into his own. She had her mothers eyes. Harry unashamedly let a tear roll down his cheek as Lily turned her eyes to sweep over Harry's own.

For a second she gasped, and Harry's heart constricted as if strangled by a snake. But then, against all odds, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, shining through the scars.

The scars Harry had given her.


End file.
